


As The Days Went By You've Lost Your Mind

by Proper_Goodnight



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Killian Jones Is Not Captain Hook, Killian Jones and Captain Hook Are Two Separate Characters, The Lost Boys Are OCs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27412357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Proper_Goodnight/pseuds/Proper_Goodnight
Summary: It did this. Ensured that it would survive through belief and magic if just to change the belief in him, turning him into more of a nightmare than a dream. The Lost Boys’ loyalty gew, but only out of fear, only with the knowledge that he was all they had.The island grew darker, the sunlight bled away and pixie dust became useless.It was Peter’s reality now and it didn’t take long to revel in that change. Strangely, he had learned to enjoy this newfound ferocity.
Relationships: Wendy Darling/Peter Pan (Peter Pan), killian jones/wendy darling
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue 1 (Wendy)

**5 Years Prior**

“You know, I quite fancy you from time to time.” They didn’t react to his arrival in the same way they had Captain Hook, the latter’s reputation preceded him more despite the brief time that they had known each other. Killain was younger, more inexperienced but easily the tallest person on the main deck of the ship even if the grace that often came with age hadn’t caught up to him just yet. He was lanky but only a little awkward as something strong and much more profound had followed him instead--approaching her with a sense of ungainly superiority. 

The crew who had been so jovial before remained as such despite the co-captain making himself present. Had it been their more esteemed captain, they would have only dared to catch each other’s eye as he stalked by, relaxed only by the mere fact that they had been given permission to shirk their duties for the time being. 

Yet, he didn’t seem to mind.

“When you’re not yelling that is.” Killian came to a full stop at her side, rather than throwing that superiority over her, he leaned over the side of the ship instead, forearms pressed against the fine woodworking, leaning his head between hunched shoulders. “Then again, I think I have more to fear when you’re quiet.”

It was a harmless jab, one that meant no ill will even if every action taken against her and Peter had suggested otherwise in the few weeks that they had been acquainted. So he had whisked her away from Peter’s company for the _second_ time since her arrival to Neverland? So he had expected her to remain civil despite his clear indifference for Peter and also somewhat clear fascination with kidnapping her?

There were worse things, and standing on the deck of a ship with the ocean lapping lazily against the side and the sky nothing but cluttered starlight and a full moon was the farthest from _worse_ that it could be. Quiet, the pricking of guitar strings and distant night calls from various insects and animals echoing faintly, Killian’s voice being the most profound thing--a dark timber that was as threatening as it was comforting. 

If one could consider Killian Jones _comforting_ in any form of the phrase. 

He made no remark of Captain Hook’s more obvious dislike for Peter Pan. There was no discussion of the various ways he’d prefer the boy’s head on a stick, no angry spiteful words that stomped on his name for the sake of his captain, nothing but an eerie calm and the bare outline of his form against torchlight. 

Killian’s hair was an organized mess of brown, facial scruff simple patches from a boy in his late teens just beginning to grow it in. He wore the proper “pirate attire” so to speak, but one would think of him as the captain if they didn’t know any better; a long coat, and a collection of jewelry that was more extravagant than all of his crew combined. It made him stick out amongst them all, and so she had no trouble recognizing him when he had approached her on the island. 

He had not taken to throwing her in a brig when he’d found her wandering Neverland’s forests alone. There was no harshness taken in throwing her aboard with the demand that she actually stay. It was an invitation, while one that assumed it would be answered with a _yes,_ it was still extended with some formality. 

Almost _gentlemanly._

There were several things that were most definitely _wrong_ with the way his words settled in the pit of her stomach--settled a mere understatement, but it most definitely made it flip. She refused to focus on them, a breeze tugging a few strands of hair into her eyes, rifled through the underneath of her dress and yet it wasn’t quite strong enough to disturb the serenity of the tree line off to her right. 

It was too perfect of a scene, a beauty in the quality of the most picturesque painting in a place so peaceful that it could only exist in pure fantasy. She entertained the thought of it _being_ a fantasy, a mere dream of the highest quality. There were several different places she could imagine herself now, none alarming her as much as the thought that she would _ever_ find peace aboard a pirate’s ship.

Her gaze turned up to him as the silence lingered, tense, fists clenched tightly at her sides. 

It felt so _wrong_ . That despite everything that Peter had told her about him, she was still _here_ . She could have tried to run when he caught her roaming around the forest; could have screamed for help--Peter would have come running. Instead, she had willingly _followed_. Quietly, without words, and didn’t so much as fight.

 _Fancy her_. She hoped that he couldn’t catch her stark blush in the darkness that surrounded them. There was always an entry point, something to draw one in to a person that was based around the fact that he existed, all of his mystery and impossibilities. Perhaps it also had to do with his charm. His looks.

No.

“I won’t be involved in villainy against Peter.” She said with an authority that she felt was only appropriate for business dealings. 

The privacy and the intimacy of the moment felt so unlike anything that she could have predicted. 

Something stirred inside of her, something indiscernible at first glance, and nothing that she could have deciphered in that moment. 

One look swept over his hands gripping the side of the ship, and her expression turned thoughtful. A part of her wanted to read his mind, solve the mysteries inside, crack open his head to peer in and satiate her curiosity. She searched for excuses within herself to somehow downplay her conflicting feelings over the matter, but she could only find a pricking sensation at the center of her chest instead.

“I didn’t bring you aboard to ask such from you.” Killian stated it as a mere fact, as if confident in his own life enough to deliver it as a simple truth without the guilt that would normally be associated against a moral, empathetic man. In the last few weeks, he’d been known to state nothing but the truth, however harsh that may be. 

He waved a hand out over the water. “I brought you out here for a toast.” He shrugged, voice ringing out over the deck. “Without the champagne. Your Neverland _prince_ destroyed what little we had of that after his latest romping.” The words rolled off of his tongue so seamlessly, but the insult was there despite the suaveness in the way he said it. 

He cocked the utmost innocence of a grin, so much more profound than his other facial expressions. “So I’ll wager that you’ll have to make do with my company sober.” 

Killian didn’t look at her, not at first. Not until she did take one tentative step toward him and he had to raise his head in order to see her. At least see her in all of her depths. The torchlight added something favorable to his hair, enlightening the dark tint that she’d only just begun to notice now that she was looking more closely. 

The scruff that adorned his chin was charming, and despite their difference in height, she would be a damn fool to not admit that she still stood equal beside him--as equal as she could be aboard a man’s ship. The wind brushed against him, the gentlest breeze pulling and pushing just enough. The breeze touched her, too.

Just not in the same way.

“He’s not--Peter isn’t my _prince_ .” Wendy retorted, but it was spat with empty defiance. He had brought her out for a toast. Not to lure Peter from his camp--a space that she had flown upon only to nearly be shot from the sky because of a jealous fairy--not to make her walk the plank and let that somehow hurt Peter in the process, not that he necessarily _had_ any reason to be hurt by her disappearance considering they’d just met several weeks prior. 

Was this a trap?

A game?

Did he actually enjoy her company in some twisted way?

Her remark earned a smile from him, a low rumbling in the beginnings of a laugh starting in his throat. At first it seemed as if he would retort, announce that everyone was Peter’s plaything in one way or another, that if one were unfortunate enough to have Peter Pan in his sights, he _would_ have them. He didn’t press the issue, however heinous he may have found her answer to be, rather one hand pushed him upright from the side of the boat, dragging his attention away from the island sitting eerily quiet off the shoreline to instead look at her again, not taking any long moment to look at her--not really.

There was no sweeping gaze this time, nor a hungry curiosity that couldn’t quite be satiated and plucked over her form and lingered there. He’d seen whatever there was to see, whatever he _wanted_ her to see, and seemingly whatever he had found had been good enough. 

Or at least, enough to satisfy whatever current urges lingered there still.

Her shoulders slumped when he averted his gaze, but she looked him up and down, cataloguing the details of his appearance. Unexpectedly, his attire suited him. He was dashing, and even thinking as much she considered a heinous crime herself. 

“Next time you bring me here, you should at least offer me a glass of wine.” A dare on impulse. Merely a desperate attempt to downplay the ridiculous softness of her tone before.

But it was also confusing, an abrupt longing to appear more grown up than she actually was. Wendy was actually surprised herself by leaning back against the side of the ship, allowing herself to relax, to ease the tension in her muscles. Her stomach was a mess of excited nerves, her face a soft flush of color.

He cocked a brow at her suggestion instead, and with a soft grin he echoed. “Next time? I’ll take note for the occasion if that’s what you would prefer.” His voice resounded so strongly with an almost agonizing confidence. It fit him perfectly. 

It all felt like her own way of following a rabbit into its hole with the striking and obvious exception that the pirate standing next to her was neither harmless nor soft. And this tension between them? Something that was akin to magic, but not quite; something more scientific and logical.

Despite falling in love with Neverland through the stories that she’d tell her brothers, being in such a place in person had caused her to love it so much more fiercely that she was secretly worried that it would disappear.

A few weeks had felt like months, adventurous and cherished spent in the company of Peter and his boys. She smoothed down her dress, albeit still watching him, the corners of her mouth involuntarily twitching into a faint grin. 

He perched one elbow on the side of the ship, leaning his head against his fist. The other hovered between them for the barest second before it slipped into quiet submission into one of his coat pockets. He stood at his full overbearing height, turning his gaze out toward the sea once again.

A puff of air released through his nose. “You could look past his petty façade, you know? See him for the bloody demon that he is.” The words were spoken through grit teeth, then added on more softly, more _lighthearted_. “You’re more intelligent than the average, I’ll certainly give you that, but your judge of character leaves something to be desired.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, just one corner upturned into the barest trace as his knuckles tapped against the side of the ship. One hard, solemn tap, not creating any particular beat or resounding an echo, but one that suggested whatever thought had crossed his mind had gone and passed.

“Peter isn’t a demon.” No, he was just Peter: lively, curious, brave, but stubborn Peter. She should not be conversing with his enemy. She should’ve left by now, or at least have taken a step to actually _try_.

She didn’t. 

“Why do you hate him so much?” Her question burst out with little thought and she sounded so brazenly attentive, her voice barely above a whisper. She had listened--with an unmistakable interest--and something about his presence made her more open, though not necessarily against her will.

It occurred to Wendy--that same prodding, insistent excitement that had flown her to Neverland in the first place. A shiver ran up her spine, and she felt hopelessly and disgustingly proud that he would think of her as _intelligent_ , or even imagine her on a level similar to his own.

“I leave the hate for Pan to Hook. Their petty squabbles are of little importance to me, but I do know how to properly judge a man, or rather a boy.” A soft grimace touched Killian’s features as if whatever unspoken truth that stood between him and Peter was as simplistic as he made it out to be. Yet so complicated at the same time, something much more complicated than cutting off his captain’s hand and feeding it to a set of crocodiles--even with as gruesome a story as that, he didn’t seem to back that behind any sort of dislike for Neverland’s king.

His dismissal did little to satiate her curiosity, and her brows furrowed the tiniest bit at his grimace. He may not have hated Peter, but there was something underneath, dedicatedly and with such a ferocity that she could swear it radiated off of him in waves. Killian didn’t treat him like an irksome fly circling his head, rather a snake swerving between your legs and prepared to bite at any given second. Wendy wanted to broach the subject again if that would help pilfer around in his head, but the low beginning of a laugh that came from him made her lose her train of thought. A rumbling sound that encircled her. 

And there it was one final time. That sweeping stare as she leaned against the side of the ship. It didn’t dwell; there was no lust behind it if just the barest possibility in its place, as if he _knew_ or rather _sensed_ something was unspoken there, some sort of interest of the other that had piqued them both. He hadn’t the gull to act on any form of instinct lest he be wrong, and while Killian may not have been a liar, he most certainly held his fair share of being _wrong_.

Even if the tension whipping between them was unmistakable--two strong forces playing a gentle tug of war--some strange magic that didn’t quite belong to any particular thing. No origins, no reasoning, no offers for a solution that would calm the sudden yank in her chest and the fluttering against her heart, she was left with nothing to do but _feel_ it hitting full force and threatening to drag her under with whatever _this_ was. 

She wasn’t exactly complaining.

“Why don’t you join me?” He offered underneath a lowered brow. What started out a startling conviction ended with his head jerking gently toward the middle of the deck toward the low strum of instruments and a low hum of a tune whispering sweet nothings against their ears but still struggling to dissolve that spike of energy. The two snapped back at one another, a sense of calm and a sense of… Wendy wouldn’t quite say urgency but something that didn’t require them to hurry if just to absorb the moment. 

“For a dance.” Killian finished with a shrug, almost helpless in nature. “We don’t have much else to occupy our time unless you have suggestions and without the rum, I’m afraid any more leisurely activities are rather useless without it.” He smirked. 

He spoke and held himself with such intimidating confidence, and she once again reminded herself that she _should_ have left. There was no way in which she could successfully throw him off guard as he glanced down at her with that soft grin--a grin that she hated to admit utterly melted her underneath it. 

Somewhere buried, her brain couldn’t decipher what to do with Killian Jones. She thought about declining the invitation, but quite frankly didn’t have it in her. This was a man who had fought Peter Pan alongside his crew’s side countless times, had witnessed who was presumably a close friend lose his hand watch it be fed to a crocodile. Most men would have retreated after such an event, made humble by defeat. Not him. He seemed confident, powerful, maybe even more frightening because of his loss. 

How Peter had bragged about it, passed it off as self-defense. The story had unnerved her since first setting foot on the island, and she should have shunned his request, avoided it, even standing there now with him. A part of her didn’t want to bury her head under the sand and keep quiet either.

Why wasn’t Killian angry?

And why wasn’t Wendy afraid? The obvious reasoning was that she’d lost her mind. There was no real fear--nothing except anxiety. His playful words resounded in her head and she reminded herself that there were certain rules in Neverland--not any she knew were written down, but figured were obvious enough for newcomers to figure out on their own.

Do not fall for a criminal.

Do not dance with a ruthless, cold-blooded pirate.

Rules were meant to be broken, with a crash and rebellion for someone who clearly didn’t fit. 

“I’d be delighted.” She quipped, dropping into a tiny curtsy. Her anticipation was difficult to mask, the timid smile upon her lips curving contentedly and betraying any attempt to remain stoic about it all. 

It was an impossibility to avoid, his charming manner evoking a child-like giddiness in her, very much like hearing a secret for the first time. It struck her with guilt, but she took another deliberate step toward him, an almost dreamy ease to her expression, eyes alert yet fluttering as if dosed with some sort of sedative.

Killian’s expression mirrored her own, extending a gloved hand to her in order to lead her to an open space on the deck. He didn’t stop until his polished boots came to one particular spot directly in the middle, an area subconsciously reserved for the two of them--out in the open of the pirates, even Neverland itself to see them. Dark eyes freely strayed to her again, relieving his hands from their gloved confines--finger by finger, agonizingly slow before even they were retired to the pockets of his coat.

“My asking was me merely being a gentleman, but having your outright permission is swell indeed.”

His bare palm pressed against her own, interlacing their fingers and raising them to a position where he could better glimpse the intimate motion--one flicker of a glance to the side that didn’t obscure his ability to look at her fully. To feel the growing warmth that resonated from his bare skin to hers made her entire being swell with heat. Not out of embarrassment or any general discomfort, rather quite the opposite. Comfort. Confidence.

Exposing his hands so freely to her made her imagine him as strangely vulnerable in a way, as if opening a part of himself to her that he shared with no one else. 

It was one thing to admire the sun--and in a way Killian most certainly reminded her of it, but in the way that in a similar fashion, she found that she could not look at him too long lest she were to get frustrated: a thought that pricked her when his other hand snaked around her waist and gently lingered against the small of her back to tug her closer. She could bask in the warmth that he radiated, revel in the heat that flowed between their intertwined fingers.

Electricity surged through her body the moment he touched her. Her pulse pounded in her ears, harsh as thunder. He stood so close, the moment unspeakably intimate, like a quiet understanding or a word scribbled on a blank slate. Her steps were light and practiced. 

How could a man who had the reputation of being so brutal touch her so gently, sway with her so softly? With each thrum of her racing heart, Wendy felt her legs trembling. Everything else became more obscured, a little more irrelevant.

But she couldn’t look.

She would complain when he was gone, be unsaisfied with the fact that she didn’t sneak more than a peek at a time, nothing ever as closely as a part of her secretly _wanted_. When he was quiet, she could complain that she didn’t hear the sound of his voice and on the days that he proved to be stronger than even she, she entertained the possibility that she would hide. 

In a strange way, it was easier to look at him when he was leaving, and in the beauty of the vanishing sunset in the distance, she wondered how she had never seen him before now. _Actually_ seen him. _Really_ looked as she was now, mustering up the bravery to let eyes linger on certain aspects. 

Killian took the first step.

“Did they teach you how to dance properly in those London nurseries?”

"Luckily they did." 

Wendy’s eyes fluttered when she forced her gaze upward, goosebumps running the length of her skin. She subconsciously squeezed his hand, delicately, shakily as if to make sure that he was really there, that this was somehow _real._ It was surprising how warm he was, having always assumed in her stories that such a villain was cold to his very core.

The vanishing sunset skinned the skyline, dark as a bruise but red as blood. A part of her feared losing _this_ , the strains of her heartbeat telling her so. Losing Neverland. Losing Peter.

Losing Killian Jones. 

The deck was hard beneath her feet. Her firm set jaw and pensive glare seemed to mark the fact that she was reflecting, slow dancing with the very pirate who was after her friend. It unnerved her. She could not fathom his purpose in all of this.

But her musings dissolved, gradually replaced by a fiery intensity burning in her stomach instead. She stared at him, savored a particular look on his face, soaking in the central feeling that he gave her. 

Killian squeezed her hand in return, no particular reasoning behind it if only to copy her gesture without understanding its full meaning. At least for her side. Her steps were graceful--much unlike his own--but oddly he managed to keep up with her well enough. The way she placed her feet one after the other was led by multiple dances in the past, multiple partners adapting to different styles.

But none quite like this.

“Well, I may not be the most well behaved man on the island, but-” He began, his voice finding a new sense of formality. It was as if his whole composure changed in the blink of an eye, as if he was coming to realize he _shouldn’t_ be dancing with her. Though that switch only depicted itself in his tone of voice. 

Killian actually drew her closer to his body, his foot hooking against the back of her heel and sweeping her feet out from underneath her into one final step in their dance; the dip. He lowered her in his arms, relishing to see the color drain from her face if fate willed it so and thought itself a comedian. A sly smirk found his lips as he did so. “I’ll wager I’m a lucky man to be given the honor of your company.”


	2. Return To Neverland (Wendy)

Wendy never said goodbye because saying goodbye meant that he would leave and if he left then there was a chance that he would forget.

Now she wished that she had, if she knew that final time would be the last time.

Their final talk, their final dance, their final song, everything using the word  _ final _ . It had become despised despite itself, and she entertained the possibility that if she could use a word other than final but similar, it would be  _ finally.  _

They  _ finally  _ talked.

They  _ finally  _ danced.

They  _ finally  _ sang a song.

At the start of his initial visits--in true Peter Pan fashion--their talks had been full of childish wonder; his usual banter was filled with that raging confidence and childlike excitement. For the longest time, he had referred to her as  _ Hey You, Girl, Wendy  _ and then finally  _ Wendybird.  _

Whatever that last one had meant. 

His visits had always been brief, a few minutes and then to an hour and only because of her own selfish desires did he stay any longer than that. A day, sometimes two if just so that they could talk  _ longer;  _ so that she could breathe him in and indulge all of her curiosities about him and Neverland. 

And he was always so eager to talk about himself, answer all of her questions,  _ reveled  _ in how curious she was about him, about his  _ world.  _ As time passed and through enough talks that made her heart threaten to soar out of her chest, she realized that there was more to Peter Pan than a mere child who had a justifiable reason for not wanting to grow older.

Yet he had done just  _ that.  _

He filled into his tall awkward frame so flawlessly. On several occasions, she had cut his hair--an argument that ultimately she had won--and on even more occasions he noticeably gained a bit of muscle tone, getting taller; much taller than her now, his dark brown hair a scruffy mess at the top of his head and his emerald eyes glinted with something much older and wiser than they had before; the transition of someone who had been a child for so long finally growing into his experience.

Other than that, he remained exactly the same, if not more quiet than he normally would be rather than the bumbling excitement that she had grown accustomed to--thoughtful almost.

Then one day, after several hours of sitting around and merely occupying the same space, barely any words spoken between them, he left through her window and she never saw him again. 

At first, she’d worried; had cried and shouted an expletive amount of derivatives at whoever would take the time to listen to them--the wind, her shadow, or merely whoever walked by her bedroom window on London’s streets below her. 

Wendy never forgot, but she wondered if by some strange and sudden change of heart, he had. If he’d stopped caring, if she had grown  _ boring  _ to him, or if perhaps something had happened to Neverland.

At eighteen years, Wendy ran out of stories to give to him to tell the Lost Boys. There were no more books in the Darling house to offer, no enchanted castles or ferocious dragons or heroes who would save the day in the end. As she grew older, so did her taste and surely the young boys of Neverland did not want to hear about the hardships of life. They wanted happily ever after. 

Peaceful endings. 

She wondered if those even happened in Neverland anymore. 

Not that she’d ever be able to visit again without him to actually  _ know.  _

So in the meantime, she was just left with not knowing.  _ Wondering.  _

That still didn’t stop her from sitting on the windowsill in her room and looking out over the night sky waiting for his shadow to loom over her, to hear Tinkerbell’s quiet jingling as she whispered in the boy’s ear, their quiet laughter and the moment when she’d open the window for him, he would come landing in like he’d lived there his entire life. 

Wendy waited there now, her knees tucked against her chest, her arms wrapped around them tight, eyes upturned to the sky as she breathed in a sigh. Her breath billowed in the cold air with the oncoming winter, and like many other nights she didn’t have John or Michael there to calm her growing anxiety anymore.

No, she had moved from the nursery years ago and since then, her conversations with Peter had grown to be much more  _ personal.  _

There had been a time when Wendy could talk about herself too, and he would  _ actually  _ listen.

It was enough to usher a smile, reminiscing of the times when they had sat inside of her room and he babbled on about one thing or another while she listened with attentive ears, a dreamy smile on her face at his simple innocence. Before he had succumbed to some sort of quiet solace the last few nights they had spent together.

The adventures of Peter Pan were an exciting pastime for her.

That would never change. 

“Where are you, Peter?” She found herself whispering to no one in particular--except  _ him  _ if he were listening, eyes fixated with longing on one particular constellation in the sky, one point connected with several others to form a pattern stretching much farther above her head than she would ever be able to reach.

He was out there, somewhere. Wendy was determined to figure out why he had just  _ gone,  _ if the universe would give her some sort of sign rather than leaving her in the dark with anticipation.

“Just help me understand.” She went on to plead,  _ beg.  _ “Why did you  _ have  _ to go?”

As if on cue, a glint in the sky caught her attention on one particular part of it. She straightened, her fingertips pressed against the glass and her breath enveloping it in fog, leaning in an effort to see it better. 

In one abrupt motion, she threw the window open, bracing her hands against the sill and leaned out of it, calling his name into the air.

_ Nothing.  _

Her heart thrummed in anticipation, a spark of hope igniting in her chest that he was  _ here.  _ That he had come back just as she was beginning to lose hope. 

A blinding flash obscured her vision, sending her sailing back into her bedroom window. Her spine hit soft carpet, knocking the breath from her, the base of her skull banging against an old toy chest. She winced, rubbing the agitated area only to come back into focus and see the shadows looming across her bedroom floor. 

At first it was just one, and then those shadows blurred together and multiplied into two, six, eight, and she’d stopped counting after that. One in particular stood at the very center of them all, a hook glinting in the faint light. Her lips parted but no sound came out, fingers closing around one wrist, and then the other, something being thrown over her head, stumbling along until her feet no longer touched ground. 

* * *

Years after Wendy had first set foot on Neverland with Michael and John, she’d promised never to speak of the place in fear of being called mad or to be dismissed as having mere  _ delusions.  _ Of course, who would believe in such a paradise? An island hidden in the stars, its prince a young boy who never aged?

Of course, that didn’t stop the young girl from a mere nursery in London from seeing the boy who took her there on the very  _ first  _ night. As she grew older so did Peter, and while at first they meant no harm, he was becoming less of a boy and like Wendy who grew to be a young woman, Peter grew to be a young man.

Eventually, those nights grew to be non-existent, even if Wendy always kept the window open even on the coldest of nights. Nothing. No Peter. No Neverland. People claimed her to be mad when she told them of her tales of pirates, fairies, mermaids and a crocodile that had swallowed a clock. Mere nonsense. They would laugh and crack jokes and tell her that she would grow out of such tales. 

Wendy had shuttered herself away from it all, even if her brothers who tried to believe that Neverland never really happened, she never could.

She missed Peter.

She missed him a lot. 

Underneath her white nightgown, her knees pressed against the cold wet timber of her wooden cage. She’d been captured by Captain Hook before, so being held captive did not phase her as much as it likely should have. There was nothing to fear, and she knew him all too well to be capable of finding a reason to be. 

But the crew reacted very differently to his arrival than the few years before. A tell-tale sign that his reputation never dwindled. If anything, it only grew stronger through the passage of time--as ironic of a concept as that was in Neverland. 

It became apparent very quickly that it was not in fact Captain Hook.

He remained the tallest person strolling across the main deck--now a man in his mid-twenties and filling into his facial scruff that now suited his sharp jawline well enough--approaching where he had placed Wendy in her caged prison as opposed to letting her stroll freely as he had before. 

He was adorned in an assortment of rings and piercings on one ear, having dismissed his hat to show his hair its familiar organized mess of brown, and he stood out amongst his much more simple crew, as if he had needed to label himself as their leader if such a label was needed. However obvious that answer would be. 

Parts of him looked different, more tired, more experienced and yet other parts remained exactly the same, features and attributes that had become stronger in some harsh technical way.

The tension that wove around the ship was thick as if one could swim through it. Fresh and clear air from the ocean’s breeze was heavy and suffocating and Killian only furthered everyone’s already unsteady breathing by placing himself at the foot of her cage, resting his hands at the very top and peering through the sturdy bars to look at her--except just like before, he struggled. He ducked his head, turning to look sideways and only with enough contemplation did he allow his eyes to meet her own, albeit with a heavy reluctance.

His voice remained a tone of  _ control _ , borderline empathetic. An eerie calm settled over him despite his clear impatience for whatever new scheme he had concocted. “I hope you don’t mind that I decided to stop in for a visit. Reminisce about old times and the like.” The dark timber of his voice remained startlingly familiar, musing aloud and downright ironic if she had decided that she did in fact  _ mind.  _

He made no attempt to straighten up to her, instead bending his head to look down on her instead, reminding her that she was the one that was supposed to submit in the end. 

A shadow cast itself over him and stretched across the cracked floorboards of the ship--not in the same way Peter’s had--threatening and generally aggressive in nature, demanding whoever took notice of it to fall in line;  _ obey.  _ “But there is a reason that we keep finding ourselves back here, Love.”

Wendy scoffed.

“If I had known you were going to drop by, I would have taken extra care in locking my windows.” She shot back, looking up and meeting his indignant stare with a pointed look of her own. “For what reason do I owe the utmost pleasure of being your prisoner? I thought that order normally fell to Captain Hook.”

A touch of loathing marred his face, her eyes finding his and upon contact, her heart twisted in her chest. Rage--and something jagged with cruelty and a decimating spark of recognition--in them revealed her utter frustration, and her suddenly hardened state. 

She was still stunned, still hopeful and she blinked furiously to keep her tears at bay instead staring daggers into the man who had kidnapped her. Five years and she had given up hope of ever returning to Neverland. It felt surreal as if fate was dangling the humility of it being a dream in front of her eyes and begging her to play its game. She’d rounded twenty for God’s sake.

Every part of her the last few years had revolved around finding Neverland again.

Finding Peter.

And her heart did oh so ache at his name, collapsing the inside of her chest as it always had when she thought of him. In her dreams, he would stand before her with a look of terrible indifference. She only hoped that he would not look at her that way should he come now. 

The whole situation was laughable. Here she was, quite literally sitting in a cage, having secretly some sort of strange infatuation with Killian Jones despite her time spent with Peter Pan. She closed her eyes on a wince, as if suddenly cut up by the anger in her—a misplaced feeling—inhaled, opened her mouth then closed it. She could have yelled, thrown something,  _ anything.  _

But seeing him left her with an odd feeling of comfort as well; relief. It  _ shouldn’t  _ have. She wanted to ask him about Peter, but also warded herself against asking.

Not yet. 

Killian betrayed her, that much she knew. Their undefined nameless bond and all of its intensity. No, she had betrayed  _ herself _ believing there to be such a thing between them in the first place. Her own delusions angered her beyond cohesive measure and while she shouldn’t have expected anything from him, she’d known who he was over top of it all. A pirate.

She’d waited for Peter to come back. Killian had never visited, but months had gone by and she’d grown impatient, her want to find him standing by her window with that charming, sly smirk to extend a hand growing stronger through each passing day. 

She glowered at him.

Killian dipped his chin, scrutinizing her expression even if his own gave nothing away. Nothing but some sort of misplaced satisfaction—not at her capture she assumed, rather  _ seeing  _ her albeit with as hurt an expression as she was giving him now. Completely absent of that curious indifference that she had regarded him with before. 

Yet, despite how long the two had known each other, he was fully aware of how well Wendy Darling  _ knew  _ him, and that made him more determined to lock her out of the chaos that raged on the inside of his head, throwing him in his own wave of morals that he couldn’t and wouldn’t decipher if just to squash it completely. 

His eyes followed the waves that cascaded down her chest before they flickered up to her eyes again. He inhaled softly, a tick working itself underneath a rigid jawline. ”It does, but I’ll be so bold as to say Tick and Tock finally finished him off.” 

“It’s been a long time, Killian.”

“I’ve spent years trying to figure out how to kill two bloody crocodiles.” He scoffed. “I could take a few more to plan an appropriate reunion for the two of us.” 

He straightened upward and hummed thoughtfully, bobbing his head as if coming to terms with something within himself. His hands pushed off of the cage making it rattle. “But you’ll be glad to know that I didn’t bring you here for the sake of killing Pan.” 

Wendy rolled her eyes at the familiarity of this back and forth. Except Killian was always the indifferent one, whereas Hook was more insistent. “You are here to offer me freedom in exchange for  _ selling out  _ Peter. Is that it?” She cocked an eyebrow. How glorious was it to be graced with such an offer from an equally prestigious captain? Anyone would be leaping to accept, but Wendy wasn’t just  _ anyone.  _ She remained stoic; disinterested. 

She would sooner leap over the boat to be fed to Tick and Tock. 

“You would like to hear him scream first before you cut out his heart. Cry?” Her features pinched into a scowl. “ _ Beg _ ?”

She smirked instead standing against the bars, grasping the wooden posts in her hands. “I already entertained you asking that one.”

“Aye, that you did.” Killian cocked a smile, leaned forward, the two standing eye level, only the bars standing between them, their gazes equally matched. “You know me that well, do you?” And she did, but not in the way that he wanted her to, as a person rather than a  _ pirate.  _

He pushed the flaps of his jacket aside and braced his hands against his hips. “I imagined that you would be  _ leaping  _ at the chance to return.” He spoke with a false sense of grandeur, doing one full spin that brought him to face her again. “It has been a long time since you have been to Neverland. We don’t see our dear friend come and go much these days.”

"Why did you bring me here?" Wendy demanded, a look of concern flitting across her features at the mention of Peter, brows pinching together in worry, but his face revealed nothing to the true emotions that lingered under his appearance.

Was he in danger? Had she still been at the tender age of fifteen, she would have yelled at him for letting her sit in this cage and treat her in such a way, for not elaborating about Peter’s whereabouts. However, her twenty year old self was so furious she could barely speak. 

_ What are you hiding?  _ She wondered silently.  _ What is this foul illusion you wish for me to see? _

Her jaw tightened. She hated him did she not? People often spoke of hate as a passionate emotion, easily confused with something else. She _ did _ hate him, and yet she found no satisfaction in the thought of letting him go. The very idea of him disappearing again made her nauseous. 

But none of it should have mattered as much as it did to her. A pirate, a man like him cared for nothing and no one. She was only a tragic pawn on his elaborate chessboard of intrigue. She was sure of that. Where was Peter? Why had he stopped visiting her?  _ Those  _ questions were of much greater importance. 

He looked unfazed as ever, composed. That wasn't  _ fair. _ She had always been able to mirror him in a way. Not this time, with that lump in her throat, her skin suddenly pallid. What would an appropriate reunion between the two of them look like? She had a few quite impulsive ideas that she helplessly attempted to ignore. 

“I’ve brought you here to extend an offer.” He leaned down, peered into her more broken demeanor with a dismissive one of his own--though clearly struggling to maintain that facade. He crouched down to her height, arms draped over his knees with a curious tilt of his head. Her words had struck a chord in some aspect, a quick flitter of his gaze sideways entertaining the possibility that he was reminiscing of that fateful night on his ship underneath a full moon when there was no sort of judgment unless bestowed by the other. 

Wendy gawked at the pirate as he crouched before her cage, a fierce rigidity to her jaw. She lowered her hands to her lap, letting them rest on the folds of her gown. Her desire to figure him out could never be quenched. She did not understand him or his motives as they looked at one another, but she wanted to, desperately. 

“An offer?” She echoed.

“Neverland is not the same way that you’ve left it. A lot has changed,  _ your  _ Pan included.” And himself, but that was an unspoken obvious between them that he didn't need to voice. Not to her. Nor did he need to point out that Wendy was not  _ his _ , if he ever needed to admit that to himself, or  _ remind  _ her of where their relationship exactly stood.

“What happened to him?” She asked again. “Where is he?”

“You’ll be relieved to know that I’ve no idea where he is,” He scoffed. “That  _ addled  _ dog deserves far worse than a quick death at my hand. After he crawls out from whatever he has decided to hide under.” And it was spat with such hate, such  _ spite.  _ A seething hatred that burned much harsher, beyond whatever past history they had shared before, beyond his previous indifference—stronger than how Hook had thought of him. 

She didn’t think that was possible. 

“He doesn’t remember you.” Killian went on,  _ willing  _ her to listen if just to believe in what he was telling her, enough to entertain, even if to  _ consider _ whatever offer he had to present to her. “If you look into his eyes, you will not see recognition. He is a  _ man _ \--no longer a boy, the shadow of a monster that has taken hold of him and refused to let go. Look around.” He waved a hand across the ship, the ocean, the silhouette of the island in the distance. “If you have not seen the impact it has had on the island, then you've  _ felt _ it.”

The eerie darkness that settled over the island was unmistakable. It left the island enveloped in something much more unsettling, casting a chill between the group. Neverland  _ was  _ different, no longer a bright and vibrant paradise, but quiet and almost  _ dead.  _ An absence of color, an absence of lively sounds as if everything had retreated and gone to  _ hide.  _

From what, one couldn’t be too sure, not at a mere first glance.

The last sentence had barely left his lips when her forehead wrinkled. She suddenly determined that all the oxygen around her had been depleted. Her throat called for a breath, one soft inhale of air, but she could not seem to will herself to it. Her stomach twisted around itself—that, or one of her lungs had fallen on top of it and was most surely squashing it. Her heart must have still been in its place, for it was pounding against the inside of her. She worked her brain to repeat his words though she knew exactly what he had said.

She just didn’t want to believe it.

"What--What do you mean? Of course he remembers me." She whispered, almost  _ horrified. _

Peter left her. But if he had done so in good conscience, or was merely ignorant of the knowledge the action would generate, she didn’t know. Wendy wrapped her fingers around the bars of her cage. The one child who abhorred the idea of growing up and becoming a man–he'd grown up anyway, in her world, visiting her but he’d been a young adult during his disappearance. Surely that hadn’t changed him that much. The same boyish, curious bold heroes she spoke so fondly of in her adolescent years. As the waves rocked the ship with their gentle, oceanic lull, she looked up to the darkened sky. Neverland really  _ had _ changed, had lost its all-encompassing brightness. 

Something wasn’t right.

The idea of dancing fairies, mermaids, even cutthroat pirates challenged reason as the isle itself stood as a jeering testament to what men of logic and reason actually knew. Its eerie transformation came with more questions than it answered, gathering like shadows at the back of her head. 

The sheer confidence of him confounded her. There he was, interesting, handsome and insufferable. During the five years since she had been to Neverland, she imagined that he did not care enough to try and see her again. The notion had made her sad and there were other times she imagined he had found someone else to dance with. The thought that she was  _ nothing  _ to him stung her deeply. She believed at some point that he would return to her and they could again share something brief, but  _ beautiful.  _

Wendy lowered her gaze. That old familiar guilt gnawed at her. She didn’t fear him half as much as she feared the itching and scratching  _ feeling  _ for him. 

“He doesn’t.” Killian replied, and something in his eyes promised that it was the truth.

But in his eyes, Wendy was supposed to become so much more than a kneeling figure mumbling her heartache and incredulity about losing Peter Pan.

The same girl that he had taken aboard his ship and shared a dance with, shared company, opened a part of himself without it needing to be  _ repaid _ , without it being classified as a  _ deal  _ and without the expectation that somehow at some point in the future it would undoubtedly be used against him as soon as it was best suited. Now she was some strange combination of the two.

And that look in her eyes was  _ nothing  _ compared to how he had seen her the first time. He’d seen the eyes of a curious girl who wanted nothing more than to explore Neverland in all of its newfound mysteries with Peter Pan’s company being a circumstance that was thrust carelessly upon her. Now she was a woman trying to find her way in one large confusing world. 

But he seemed to recognize her now, but not in the same way that she  _ wanted  _ him to see her. 

Regardless he extended his hand to her, while not proud of the change that she’d been made to witness, she was still hopeful that if fate so willed itself to his side--if it were not going to be a cruel mistress that beat her down and fled at a moment’s notice--then she could put a foot forward to meet it too. 

And hope for the best. But Wendy decided then, making a demand to fate and destiny and whoever had decided that  _ this  _ was the way things should be that she would not be a part of it--if things were not actually set in stone and she was actually given that choice. Misguided steps would be taken, rather than what was advised, if only to assure that she didn’t get pulled farther away.

“I want you to join me.” He said at last.

Let Wendy--the  _ woman  _ who had unknowingly pulled a piece of him apart and kept it with her that he didn’t even know he had--fight back with the ferocity that she knew she could have. Their relationship hadn’t been privileged enough to have begun on traditional courtship--an exchanging of letters, shy conversations or an awkward exchange of glances from a distance.

No, that was a life of luxury that while promised to everyone, couldn’t afford to be spared and not a second time around--not for him. 

His fingertips gently brushed across her hand, tracing the ridges of her knuckles through the bars, an oddly intimate touch, one that held a much more gentle nature than what was expected. “Stand at my side, Love. Don’t let yourself succumb to regret because you didn’t. Help me  _ end  _ Pan’s reign and undo the damage that he has done before the island is dragged under with him.

And she could think of only one other thing for him to do that would demonstrate his desperation, to convey how important it was that they be united rather than divided.  _ Beg.  _

The mere thought was appalling to even her, the fact that after spending so much of his life being who he was seeking acceptance only to finally be free from subjection just to be abject and inadequate again. Even to her who had somehow and someway stirred an ember inside of him too. 

Who he thought before had believed in him. Rather than seeking out her acceptance, he’d secretly hoped that he’d already had it. 

Surprisingly, he pushed the revolting word past his lips, forced himself to look her in the eye despite how much it pierced him in the very deepest part of his being. “ _ Please _ .”

Wendy’s brows slowly arched the more he spoke. She looked up at him through her lashes, shivering at the sensation, a tingling sensation left behind by his touch. There was a nervous, thrumming that soared in her veins, twisting and weaving through her blood. It crackled between them, all anticipation and potential. A misplaced sense of pride and victory surged through her, swelled in her chest, causing her nerves to stand on attention.

He wanted her to join him. 

She didn’t move--not at first. She watched. Wondrous excitement similar to that of a time when she’d learned how to fly using pixie dust. It lit up her eyes momentarily replacing her distress. 

But she didn't  _ understand _ . How was Peter a danger to this world? She felt something desperate clawing at her chest, felt it press upon her lungs and threaten to drown her more excitable emotions. Could she trust this pirate? 

No. She could not. She couldn't allow herself to.

But he sounded so earnest, so sincere. She hated the idea of what Peter was capable of, what he  _ might  _ be--ill-intentioned--and she despised the possibility more than the thought of walking the plank of the Jolly Roger to become an afternoon snack for crocodiles.

Yes, Peter had remained carelessly and childishly free albeit not as quick to burst out nonsense anymore. Sometimes she thought there was a thoughtless cruelty in the set of his mouth that formed into the curve of a grin, but that didn’t make him a  _ villain.  _

She had to wait it out.  _ Strategize.  _

Killian's plea hung in the air and she briefly averted her gaze before giving him an oddly contemplative look.

”Okay." 


	3. The Debt (Wendy)

Wendy’s heart slammed in her chest, keeping in time with a monotonous loop with her only questions being  _ why am I doing this  _ and a reassurance of  _ it will help you find Peter. You’ll have the chance to ask him yourself about what’s going on.  _

“I will join your side, but that will be easier on the  _ other  _ side of the bars.” She composed herself, grasping at her courage and her dignity, regulating her breathing as a meagre display of control to help build her confidence. 

But she caught it.

The slight tremor in his fingers, the tensing of his arm to force them to steady and looking at her with an equally dumbfounded expression as though he were expecting her to say something else.

Like a simple _ no _ , or something along the lines of telling him to go to hell in whatever special way that she had.

Killian’s breath hitched, lowering his gaze to his hand--the one still wrapped around her own, thumb running gently over her skin. It was sheathed in a black leather glove, and that somehow made it look so much more cold and distant than when he had openly let her feel his palm on that fateful night so long ago. Impersonal, and she would even go so far as to say more businesslike than intimate.

But she wanted him to feel her, and she wanted to feel the rough edge of his calluses and the thrum of heat that radiated from his palm. Not just the persona of Captain Killian Jones, but the neglected boy, the bitter man--a lonely troubled being that went by the name of just Killian.

She didn’t want to feel the cold, dark barrier between them, nor prison bars. She was saying yes and he was gazing at her silently, as if pleading for this moment to be true, not some ill-wrought hallucination or a petty trick. His lips pressed together into a thin taut line, ducking his head one more time until he was standing again. 

He yielded and without missing a beat, his fingers fumbled for the latch, flipping it open in one swift movement. In the next, he was laying his heart at her feet, a more vulnerable gesture than what she had expected of him. “You will not regret this. I swear it.” He stood there before her, tall and towering, extending an open palm much like the first time. 

Except this proved to be a moment of more purpose. One moment that would lead to another rather than an abrupt night that promised they would eventually part. 

Neither were rattled with anxiety now, a smile touching his lips. “I always believed I saw a little bit of pirate in you, Darling.”

For the briefest of a second she contemplated hugging him--wondered what it would be like to cling to him, pour all of her desperation into it and feel something akin to relief because he would be  _ close _ , pressed against her. The option flitted, but one she quickly discarded to instead take his hand and move out of her caged prison.

All she knew in that moment was that she felt powerful. Elated.  _ Free _ . 

A mixture of emotions that she hadn’t felt in a long time when it wasn’t over-encompassed by grief and confusion.

Wendy wanted to smirk at his remark, and the corner of her mouth  _ did _ twitch, but she settled for an appraising expression instead, an acknowledging dip of her chin. She never feared Killian Jones, or perhaps she had once long ago when he was nothing more than a simple deckhand, but that was a time long gone and past. 

Why did it feel  _ good  _ to be around him again?

In this unimagined thing she deemed as passion, she cast all proprietary to the wind with the sails and accepted the promise he’d held out before her.

Never mind the guilt. She had waited five years to see Neverland’s shores again. 

Two years to see Peter again.

And hearing Killian’s words shouldn’t have felt so flattering,  _ liberating _ . In all manners of ways, it  _ should _ have been absolutely appalling. 

It was only pretend, was it not? 

A ploy to play along in order to find out what had happened to Peter?

Through her heart pounding in her ears above the waves lapping against the sides of the ship, that was what she told herself and it sounded utmost convincing when not spoken aloud. But she would also be lying to herself if she said that standing beside his imposing form didn’t mean that she had been freely given some form of recognition. 

“I used to fantasize about being one.” She just hadn’t actually planned to go through with it. 

She pulled her hand away to tuck a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze unwavering, looking out over the ocean and squinting against the harsh sunlight peeking through dark clouds. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to teach me how to be a  _ proper  _ pirate.” She said decidedly, only half-joking, and with a small but determined step toward him, she breathed with hidden anticipation.

Though she was not a famed princess hailed from one of her fairy tale stories that she had discarded long ago, she still considered herself lucky to stand where he stood--feeling oddly treasured.

“If it is anything like your dancing, I have full confidence that it will come just as easily.” His remark sent her heart stuttering into overdrive, and she forcefully kept her expression composed, struggling not to beam harsher than the sunlight.

When he turned, the crew who had been staring with such acute interest abruptly turned their backs, slipping into their normal routine as if they hadn’t spent the last few minutes watching their captain express such interest in their captive--now newfound member? 

Killian, ever the observant one that he was,  _ knew _ ; had caught a glimpse of their dumbfounded curiosity but made no remark. Perhaps because it wasn’t the time, or he was in too jolly a mood to necessarily care, but his steps marked a firm plodding across the deck as he maneuvered onward to his cabin, stopping only once to look over his shoulder to be sure that she was still following. And she was. 

“It’s much like a waltz really. You just pick a partner that knows what he’s doing and fortunately, you have the most infamous captain that has sailed the seven seas!” The declaration boomed across the deck in a show of grandiose celebration, met with a rumble of agreement that rose up from the other men as equally cheerful. 

Wendy could only smile, a slight twitch at one edge of her lips.

“First things first, you’ll need some new clothes. No ill will toward your current garments, but I should like you to stand at my side in something that’s not a--” He paused, lips moving but no words making themselves known just yet before finally settling with: “Something that will not give the lads a good view should the wind blow the wrong way.” 

Catching her sudden frown, with a light smirk, he stepped into the confines of his private quarters. Within moments they were closed off from the rest of the crew in the dim light of his cabin--her steps taken inside with more caution. 

There was nothing grand or particularly extravagant about it, albeit cluttered and housing the necessities--a desk in the very center with more than enough paper stacked atop to consider it cluttered, a circular table sitting by one large window likely used to eat a meal, a collection of globes and boxes of various trinkets and other belongings that he had collected on his adventures, a bed sloppily made in one corner flanked by a couple of side tables.

Off in a separate area--that more or less took up the majority of the room and sitting on top of a very wide and  _ red  _ carpet was a grand piano, cluttered with candles and paper and only parts of it filled out as if he had at one point attempted to write a song that didn’t quite piece itself together and had since given up.

“We don’t see many female pirates--most certainly not in Neverland, but I’m sure that I have something you can use.” Killian walked through it without sparing his more grandiose belongings even a single glance, coming to a singular chest sitting against the wall underneath a mirror. He began to sift through it. “Make yourself at home, Love. There is wine in the cabinet if you want to partake.”

She nodded, head swiveling around the privacy of his quarters before finally settling on the grand piano sitting squarely to one side, an almost dream-like expression taking hold. 

Oh, what would Peter say if he could see her standing in the cabin of his enemy with such a look of wonder on her face?

Peter, whose come-hither smile--no matter how much she wished to deny it--still enchanted her in ways that she could never simply forget. 

_ No.  _

She was only playing a part, she reminded herself. It was all to untangle where Peter was now. 

However, she couldn’t deny that the seemingly unending, slow sway that rocked beneath the room was calming, lulling her into a sense of security. Wendy watched as Killian rummaged through the chest to look for something she could wear. Ever the gentleman.

She suddenly became acutely aware of how easy it was to slip into comfort around him after spending five long years apart. She’d almost missed the way he insisted upon calling her  _ Love _ . 

Scanning the room, she found the myriad of trinkets within the boxes, both rare and unusual, the paper stacks on the desk. What was he up to? She thought, and turned to look out the window. Straight ahead, the unmistakable silhouette of an island--now changed and ominous--stood at the other side of the water’s edge, a dark outline against the burning rage of sunset. 

Slowly sinking down into a chair in front of the piano, she turned so that she was facing the opposite direction on the bench. “You mentioned before that Peter doesn’t remember.” Her heart sank, but only a little, still partially unsure if she could trust the words of a pirate--even if that pirate happened to be Killian Jones. 

“What makes you think so?”

“You know what they say.” Killian said and then specified as he rummaged through the chest. “Rumors spread. Words are passed to tribes, which are passed to fairies and it eventually winds up in the ears of a pirate.” When he turned, he was holding one particular garment, a green fabric of some kind that he held up in the air in front of her with a cock of his head. There was a brief moment of pause, a sound of indignation escaping his throat before he tossed it back into the chest and continued looking. 

“When Pan returned from one of his escapades give or take four, five years ago, I asked him for a favor.” His back was turned, and he had to raise his voice to be heard over the rattling of the contents being thrown about in the box. “I wanted to try a life outside the bounds of piracy, and so I asked him for the resources to leave Neverland to pursue it. We made a deal, and he told me that if and when I came back, my debt would have to be repaid.”

Killian seemed to pause for a moment, one hand bracing the edge of the box, his hook looped through one particular piece of fabric that he must have decided against, for he shook his head and continued. “Under certain circumstances, I returned and that was when the rumor reached me. Pan’s memory was a fragment of its former self.”

Wendy tried to veil her own surprise and failed miserably.  _ He _ had wanted to try a life outside the bounds of piracy? Mild, honest, but innocent shock etched itself into her expression. She almost couldn't imagine him in her world, living a normal life, but a part of her also could. A small sliver of her wondered what mother and father would think.

Inhaling softly through his nose, he snatched one last article of clothing and turned to face her, a black fabric clutched in one hand, and folded over his forearm. “I thought that perhaps I had lucked out and he had forgotten about my debt as well. That is, until he came to collect it.”

Deft fingers plucked small bits and pieces of jewelry from various shelves and other furniture as he passed by them, closing the distance that lingered between them until he was looming next to her at the piano. “I tested the waters to see if perhaps my crewman were merely pulling my leg. I asked him about you, asked about how he had managed to age in a place where time was an abstract concept, if maybe  _ you  _ were the cause of him suddenly growing into a man, but he hadn’t the slightest idea as to what I was talking about.”

A subtle shrug followed the confession, extending what he had gathered and had seemingly deemed appropriate. Not a showy dress or anything of that fashion, but something comfortable that didn’t show an excess amount of skin and most importantly: pants. 

“He wanted something very valuable to me as payment. I  _ begged  _ and I  _ pleaded  _ for him to take something else.  _ Anything  _ else, but he did and I haven’t seen him since. He changed hideouts, he hasn’t been to see the tribes; there’s talk that even Tinkerbell has abandoned him.”

Killian’s tone dropped an octave, and while it was subtle, there was an ounce of hurt behind the words, a genuine grief that whatever he had lost had only increased his hatred for the prince of Neverland tenfold. Not enough to want to give him the pleasure of a quick death, but something much  _ much  _ worse. 

He cleared his throat, and suddenly that cocky and confident demeanor was back--his earlier contempt forgotten, the quick flicker of the emotion squashed as soon as it had been realized. His eyebrows flicked upward, lips pressed together in one tight line. His chest heaved. “But I’ll wager that his memories are only limited to the island, and whatever happened beyond that was simply void.”

Wendy’s resolve remained a solid, impenetrable fortress of will, and she tried to shake free of what she did not want to hear until it all but overwhelmed her. She did not  _ want _ to believe him, but suddenly found it difficult to simply dismiss.

She accepted the clothes with hesitance, her mind running rampant. 

Their adventures and the precious time they had shared. Every laugh and smile that was passed between them, their time spent with the boys. How could he just  _ forget _ ?

She refused to fold to the despair, clutching the fabric in an attempt to process, holding it as if that would somehow ground her. Something very wrong had to have happened if even Tinkerbell had abandoned him. 

Yet, there was something else that pricked at her, something beyond everything that he hadn’t quite answered. 

Wendy stood, facing him with a newfound decisiveness, but still with that soft crease of worry on her forehead. "What is it that he took from you?" She asked barely above a whisper, and strongly contemplated the possibility that he wouldn’t tell her. She'd caught a glimpse of the conflict in his eyes when he spoke about it, and the slowly returning ease to his words couldn't convince her otherwise. 

It wasn’t that she was  _ trying  _ to analyze or dive into his head, but she could have easily been wrong about anything she guessed--and realized she likely was. She could see that he cared about what he’d lost, and she’d known it the second he averted his eyes the first time they met.

He was a man of great feeling, just good at hiding it. 

She took a tentative step toward him, but as she persisted, he retreated, taking one careful step back of his own. 

The small of his back pressed against the piano and he was given no other choice--even when trying to duck his head--to look at her with only the most honest sincerity. His answer was equally the same, albeit spoken more quietly. “Nothing that will ever rightfully be returned to me. Nothing that even the bloody demon’s death will make up for.”

Standing as they were now, he had to look down to see her clearly, the only thing standing between them now besides their equally stubborn natures were a few agonizing inches of empty space. Space that he  _ could  _ have closed just by taking one step closer.

He didn’t. 

“But I  _ need  _ to find him. There are answers that I require and I want you to see for yourself that when he came to me to collect this debt, he was  _ not  _ the  _ boy  _ that you have grown so fondly of.” And without any particular reasoning behind it, nothing that had urged him to exactly do so besides his own sense of some strange  _ want,  _ he reached out toward her, his fingers toying with a strand of her hair to tug it behind one ear. 

The brief, gentle touch made a tight knot coil around her stomach, an ache gnawing deep inside herself. 

He exhaled softly through his nose.

“But of course that is my plan.” Killian turned his head, sliding sideways in order to get out from where he had been wedged in between her and the piano, fidgeting with the cuffs of his jacket. “But first things first, I will be stepping out so that you can change.” His tone had returned to normal, ringing out across the empty space of his cabin.

“Let me know if you need help with any of it. I’ll be back in two shakes if I don’t hear from you.” And just as quickly as he’d appeared, he’d gone--with a sly wink following his exit, leaving her to adorn the outfit that he’d chosen with no other direction than to simply  _ find  _ him after.

Unless of course he came back before then to berate her for being so slow at putting clothes on.

It took a few moments of simply  _ breathing  _ before she finally willed her limbs to move. Of course,  _ of course _ he refused to tell her the full truth, and then suddenly she was alone in his cabin, mouth agape, his voice and that wink still a clear picture in her mind.

Wendy undressed quickly, pulling her dress over her head and yanking on her new clothes, utterly thankful for the black pants and the comfort they provided. She regarded herself in the mirror, examined the red button up shirt with its rolled up sleeves and the three golden bracelets jingling on her right wrist. 

Satisfied with what she saw, she nodded to herself and left to find Killian. 


	4. The Caged Bird Sings (Wendy)

Wendy walked outside with a confidence in her step that surprised even herself, passed by the numerous sea of faces that belonged to his crew--all shared expressions that conveyed wonder and confusion as she walked amongst them--just as equally unresponsive and shifting to vague concern, but her thoughts remained solely on the one who had hired her. 

She moved with haste, her hope that Peter would remember her had dissipated like the fading sun of Neverland, which now set broodingly but weakly before her in the unnatural darkness that tinted the world in its new, sinister hue. 

With her hands in her pockets--very useful things--she ventured across the deck and looked around for Killian.

Wendy didn’t get very far before absently stopping in her tracks. She looked up into the darkening sky and thought of Peter--the boy who used to bring endless Spring and Summer to the island--and so Wendy listened, trying to hear the familiar crow she had once heard in her youth. The strange, eerie laugh of the boy she had once referred to as a hero whose careless demeanor could be heard even the farthest of distances. An innocent sound that brought a sense of normality to the land of unending childhood--or at least it had before.

No cry emitted by a bird or a beast dared mimic the fearless call which all children longed to hear--as it went unheard by all who took care to listen. At this somewhat reluctant, and yet admitted defeat, she turned her focused gaze to the clouds, hoping to see a familiar small figure, no larger than a grain of sand, dart above the large canopy of treetops. Her hopeful expression waned, and her eyes dimmed as she waited in vain for any sign of her old friend. 

“It took me awhile to get used to the view, too.” Killian’s shadow loomed just behind her before he came to stand at her side, one hand in his pocket and the other dangling beside him. “I don’t think I’m used to it quiet yet. It’s a strange thing seeing the same sight for centuries and then it suddenly changes.”

His observation would have rang true, had he actually been looking at Neverland’s dull outline in the distance; peered out and in the way the sun glared weakly below the horizon, extended their shadows across the desk and threatened them with the only light that would reach them now. He looked at her instead.

And he wasn’t the only one. The rest of the crew gawked with curious wonder, several standing with their mouths slightly agape, their menial tasks forgotten even with the expectation that they would be risking meeting their captain’s fury just to stare a _moment_ longer. Only one seemed resistant to her charms, one boy no more than eighteen lounged with his shoulders planted against the siding, his knees drawn up to his chest and a hardened expression as he sharpened a knife. 

Only when Killian turned his head did they finally avert their eyes, a low series of whistles rumbling amongst the crowd. 

His hand took the hilt of his sword, however he did not turn it on his crew or threaten them for even entertaining her in such a way, rather kept it in its scabbard, extended it out to Wendy. “Are you ready for our sparring match, then?”

There was no warning before she had extended a hand and he’d placed his own sword there. “If we are going to be searching for Pan, I should be more comfortable if you know how to defend yourself.” The brief moment shared between them had dissipated in an instant, now seamlessly slipping back into his _captain_ demeanor to put a few steps between them, whipping around with some newfound excitement, a slight bounce in his step. 

“And I’m right to assume that you’ve never been in a duel before. Your feet move very much like the steps to a dance,” He motioned to the tip of his sword. “And the pointy end goes through whoever you’re trying to stab.” He grinned. “Don’t be afraid to, you know,” He threw a hand out. “Really get into it.”

“What if I accidentally hurt you?” She blurted and immediately scolded herself. In front of her stood one of the most dangerous men she’d ever known and _she_ was worried about hurting _him,_ heedless of the fact that he had plenty more experience and would or could likely incapacitate her within the first few seconds.

Peter had shown her a few tricks, ironically to defend herself against pirates like him. 

She pulled the sword from its scabbard and eyed the dull gleam of its blade, suddenly unsure. Peter would never _attack_ her… would he? Somehow, with Neverland being so different from how she remembered it, she suddenly wasn’t so sure. With a soft scowl, she experimentally swung the blade through the air and locked eyes with Killian. 

But Wendy, as incapable of warming up to the possibility of inflicting any physical harm upon someone as she was, especially _him_ , hesitated. Suddenly embarrassed by her reckless affection for him, she tightened her grip on the hilt. She wanted to learn how to properly defend herself, but she hesitated on this newfound territory. Still, the adrenaline that came with the mere feeling of _holding_ a sword excited her, the crackling energy singing inside her body, coiling tightly around her scattered nerves.

Her hands itched with ruination, the urge to follow his order and attack him.

Or at least _try._

Instead, she stood still. 

“Don’t look so unsure now, Love.” Killian prompted and once again waved an inviting hand forward. It was gentleman-like to offer a woman the first move in a duel--even during a practice spar, and yet the amount of time that she was hesitating versus the amount of time that he stood there was growing substantially longer with neither making the first move and with nothing more to do than blankly stare. 

He held up his hands in a temporary truce, leaning his weapon against the side of the boat before approaching her with careful, calculated steps--and she could only assume it was because she was brandishing his own weapon at him and was vastly inexperienced. The other reason being that he could never be in close proximity with her lest some strange foreboding anxiety take root.

He circled around until he was at her back, foot gently knocking against her ankles to spread them into the appropriate positions, one forward and one straight. Rough, calloused fingers brushed across her knuckles, a firm grip effectively squaring them for her, brushing her hair back to assist getting it out of her way. 

“Stand like this,” The next motions were taken with greater care, one hand effectively running the length of her forearm, his fingers brushing against the fabric of her shirt, lingering on her skin until it could wrap around the hand that gripped his sword, guiding her into the appropriate hand motion for a simple strike.

Wendy’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t move; didn’t dare. He was so _impossibly_ close. Concentrating quickly proved to be a fruitless effort, the knot in her stomach strung taught and making her ache with unacknowledged feelings.

It was a teasing bastard of a scene; immersing and so full of secrets that had captured her interest and simultaneously refused to relinquish it. His breath caused her skin to sizzle with want so tangible, he could easily slice into it if he wanted to. There was a dizzying rush that came with his proximity, one that made her eyelids flutter. 

“And just like this,” He was leaning close enough that his breath gently caressed her ear, his abdomen nearly pushed into her spine, turning his head to the side to catch a glimpse of her side profile before they separated--an action that she hoped he regretted, but one that had to be done. 

“Alright,” Killian breathed, retrieving his sword from the side of the ship and facing her again. “Just pretend that I am one of your London rapscallions so long as you don’t poke my eye out.”

_Just pretend that I am one of your London rapscallions._

Following this sudden and new impulse, she swung at his sword, throwing the entirety of her fierce desire and frustrations into the attack, a preciseness that she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of. The steel screeched against one another, the clanging ringing in her ears as she dared to go for another strike that he blocked quite easily.

With a heightened sense of awareness and a challenging glint in her eyes, she stared fixedly at him, her mind whirring. Practicing with him felt like putting her hand in a crocodile’s mouth, but _he_ actually gave her the chance to escape unscathed. She wanted to drop her sword and throw herself at him, force him to actually _look_ her in the eye for longer than a few seconds and.. Talk to him.

Yes, that was _it._

In fact, it spurred her on, and she moved her sword and repeated the same movement from before. 

One hand had braced itself behind Killian’s back and while he had no intentions of hurting her, not even if she stood on the opposing side, she felt oddly insulted that he seemed to be holding back. A shock vibrated up her arm when she threw her first attack, the ferocity behind it surprising even him. Killian had to take one practiced and clumsy step backward in order to avoid the second. “You must have ill memories of a previous lover with this sudden fire.” He mused, the hint of a tease lacing his tone and unfolding seamlessly from his lips despite having to recompose himself.

The moment was treated as a kind of game, a gentle smirk following his acute observation, closing the space between them on the deck, kicking up dirt and dust with the abrupt movement. He brought his weapon upward, throwing it down in a flurry of cold steel. The meeting of their blades thrummed a shock up his forearm, rattling as he met her show of force.

Locking their blades in an X formation, he teased over the crossing of their swords. “You know, I often prefer to do much more enjoyable activities when I’m throwing a woman on her back. If you care to turn this into a friendly competition, I’ll wager that I can give you something decent in return if you manage to win.”

He met the intensity of her stare with relative ease, and all at once he threw their blades to the side so the points skid across the deck, the sharpness of his hipbone slamming into her abdomen, albeit not exerting as much force as she knew he could have. “But you’re going to have to try much harder than that,” he taunted, twirling his sword in an expert hand. It made an almost inaudible _whoosh_ sound before coming to a full stop in his palm again. He grinned.

Wendy’s movements stuttered when he spoke, teasing her in a way that only fueled her intense desperation. He wasn’t being _fair_ , not that she most certainly expected him to, but his words had caught her off guard, weakened her. Her breath caught in her throat.

Had he really just said that?

The rosy hue in her cheeks flushed. He was so very clever, that much undoubtedly true. She didn’t _quite_ trust him, but it pulled at her brow, sparkled in her eye, perched on her lips. She wanted him so badly it actually _frustrated_ her. 

She could never fully explain the origin of her attraction to him. Anyone who saw him had to admit that he was handsome at least, an unprecedented picture of confidence, inspiring desire in the way he stepped, _spoke_. 

And yet it also went beyond that. 

Wendy hardly realized that she had started carrying herself like a loaded gun as they sparred, her sword clattering to the floor when he threw a fraction of his weight against her side and she released it without thinking. She inched closer to him until their faces were mere inches apart, forcing him to look at her. 

At home, she had considered that she had simply been forgotten among an endless stream of willing women, and suddenly that feeling was back, but this time it poured over into a jealous, horribly inappropriate protection. They had only ever exchanged the most innocent touches and while to her they had been laden with meaning, she couldn’t help but shake the sudden unease that came with wondering whether he treated other women _differently_ , let them get _closer_.

What if he thought she was still a prim girl? A funny, but fleeting distraction?

“You think I want _something decent_ from you? My, you’re bold.” Her tone was absent of any irritation, only a weary sense of fact--and a little white lie--the tip of her nose brushed against his. Warmth swelled in her chest and the closeness was enough to momentarily obscure her senses. 

His breath hitched when her hand found his chest, fingers inching agonizingly slowly down his abdominal area, further down and stopped just above his stomach and she felt his entire spine stiffen underneath her touch. She pushed him away without warning, picked up her sword and took a step back with a soft, faint smirk, that hot bloom of excitement still growing beneath her flushed skin as she raised her weapon once more.

A friendly competition indeed.

Killian would have been lying if he had blatantly said that her words hadn’t stung--she could see it. Not out of any particular embarrassment or shame, rather a genuine and dumbfounded interest at her sudden change in attitude. “I imagined when I won your heart, it would be because you wanted me. Not because you desire me as a trophy.” His free hand gently scratched against the base of his skull.

Wendy seemed to fixate on backing him into a metaphorical corner more often than not. She blinked, her jaw parting slightly, the clanking piercing through her distracted state.

He only urged her to mess back, _tease_ him. 

Was he only teasing her again? His implications shocked her while she attempted to suppress the feelings slowly bubbling to the surface. Where did it come from? This sudden talk? Was it rooted in sincerity? She tried to keep up with her meager attempt at parrying, suddenly unable to string up an answer.

Somehow, it also excited a part of her.

She had been so convinced, so sure that he was playing a game. Of course he had feelings, desires, he _cared_ about things, more than he wanted to admit. But he’d always kept a safe distance, refused to meet her gaze head on for longer than necessary.

Suddenly it didn’t matter who won--had it ever--and her fierceness was replaced by a need to understand. No, she did not desire him as a trophy, but she _did_ want to take his face into her hands, let her forehead rest against his and soak what was inside. His cutting words were like fine arrows piercing her through her very vulnerable heart. She wanted to be there for him, hear his twisted thoughts, but he never went all the way. 

Tease, retreat, repeat. 

A game.

“I have no intentions of being toyed with.” The words left her mouth before she could stop herself, but if her mouth did not, her eyes spoke volumes, revealed earnestness, yet were strangely perplexed at the turn their conversation had taken, its sudden sobriety. “If you want my heart, _Captain_ , you could just go ahead and _take_ it.”

She blocked another swing, never averting her eyes.

When Killian actually managed to shake himself out of his daze, an incredulous scoff escaped him and played into a grin despite having to glance away. His thumb swiped across his nose. “I haven’t any intentions of _taking_ anything, because when I win your heart and I _will_ , it will be of your own desire, not because I took it from you.” Killian could have taken this _thing--_ whatever it was that lingered between them and drew them in, conjuring a heady mixture of apprehension and excitement deep inside of them. Raw. Untouched. Unexplored. The manifestation of it laid bare and dangling above him like meat.

It wasn’t difficult for Killian to find his cocky demeanor once again as he brushed off the initial shock. Once again, he held his sword out toward her but with a new crackling intensity. The force of his swing was heavy with an untouched strength and he moved as he always did: a forward advance, a parry, leaping back and stepping forward, a synchronized dance of two partners that knew the steps of the other quite well.

And it was not their first dance. 

The captain of the Jolly Roger fell to the motions easily as though they were natural--as if he had been doing this dance his entire life. “I will be thinking of what I want as my reward for when I win, but I can humor you if you have something in mind.”

His eyes flickered down to the bare _inches_ that were put between them that he could close so easily. The affirmation felt right, a revelation she believed that he was confirming within himself and would somehow let him know that it was correct, even if once upon a time they had been on opposite sides. 

Physical strength would only carry him so far. He at least had the reach and the grace, a straightened posture and years worth of experience. 

Experience in a lot of things. 

“I do have something in mind.” She continued with a smile. “Many things. But I always figured that if you wanted to partake in them, you would have tried so long ago.” 

Things like kissing her. Like pulling her flush against him.

 _Looking_ at her without turning away after mere seconds. 

She knew that perhaps he’d simply been a gentleman. There was evidence, such as their dance full of childhood innocence and secret passion. No pressure. Only the softest of touches and the brushing of hands, the gentleness one would expect a pirate like him to scoff at. Wasn’t it all a display that proved their bond had meant something? It was a possibility, but she was too overcome with urgency and doubt to focus on it for too long.

“Suffice to say Love, I’m going to take my win now.” He pushed back at her, threw their swords downward and then up until they were spiraling from their hands and clattering across the deck in a loud clanging of steel. She drew in a sharp breath. A hand wrapped around her wrist, pulling her forward until his fingers could snake over her palm, his actions suddenly unbridled and running rampant. The graze of their fingertips thrummed against her senses, suddenly hypersensitive and drowning out the low thudding of her own heart. 

Their palms pressed together, his towering form over her, his stare sweeping so thoroughly. And he smiled, both corners of his mouth upturned into the most confident trace, dark pools showed the inner workings of his emotions, that _want,_ that approximation of happiness that he seemed so desperate to shun away. The raw emotion that spilled between them, practically begging him to unleash it all. 

In the open confines of the deck, he could have created space, _distance._ He remained close, searching her face, relishing in the heat that flowed to her just from their palms, the eyes looking at her now so much unlike the ones that should belong to a feared pirate captain. Something stirred, alive and hopeful, and had it been completely quiet, there would be an echo of his heartbeat around them, filling what remained of the empty space. More emotion in the beat of that second than had been witnessed from him before. An urgency, a desperation, a primal response to something neither realized they wanted until then.

His pulse echoed rapidly against her hand, the connection more tangible than ever, every atom quaking with recognition.

“I want my prize.” He said, voice barely above a whisper, an atypical softness in his normally playful features.

Shivers ran down the length of her spine. It sounded like a threat, a promise, a _vow_. She looked at him, feeling the gentle assurance behind his words. 

Their contest had reached its breaking point, trapping them both in a string of magnetism, growing stronger with each second they spent with such a slight distance between them. 

Her stomach wound tighter and tighter with a desire that had become familiar with the last few hours

_Prize._

Seconds gathered between them, the blush reaching across her nose. His eyes seared holes into her like a magnifying glass beneath a bitter sun--intense and wild and simmering to a slow blaze. She watched him intently with an equal expression, this attraction Wendy learned, turned her feverish, made her heart more sensitive.

“Then _take_ it.”


	5. A Storm Rages (Wendy)

_“Then take it.”_ She whispered, her voice fringed with a repressed desperation. Asking him. _Daring_ him. 

_Take it. Take it. Take it._

In the back of her mind, she could see her younger self. How often she had thought of this, how the undercurrent of formality between them had always masked an intense longing. Wendy squeezed his hand, her fingers moving oh so eloquently over his own, up through the ridges of his knuckles until they intertwined. She imagined kissing him, imagined her hands on him, urgent with want. It’d been that way since that small spark on the ship that five long years ago. 

Had she known that it would eventually erupt into a wildfire, she may have done something about it sooner. 

Then again, back then they’d both been the same thing. Naïve children. 

Her gaze dropped to his lips, catching the soft frown creasing his forehead. He would never admit it, but she knew that he hadn’t so much as the foggiest idea of what raged through the inside of her head. A part of him wanted to oddly enough, and that was enough to elicit a soft smirk from her, and dare to lean. To attempt to close that little bit of distance. 

Just as her mind considered it, her head snapped up to greet a charcoal sky. Impetuous rumbling permeated the air, an onslaught of sudden rain brought with it. It declared to all of the raw power of Neverland, as if the world itself happened to be in the mood at the _worst_ possible moment, giving them only a single fair warning of the wrath that it would surely unleash. Even the sea itself was drawn to the turmoil, waves striking relentlessly against the sides of the ship, the storm’s fury only sated by the creaky rocking in its raging torrent. 

She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her grip tightened as she stood there, transfixed. Sparks danced over their heads in the form of bright, jagged lines. The sudden outburst of all of its unnatural intensity was not anything that she hadn’t seen before during her initial visit. It was as if it had a heartbeat of its own, as if it wanted to interrupt them merely for the sake of _doing_ it. 

Killian looked at her, her dare only increasing the temptation tenfold. Any potential action came out in the form of a breathless laugh from him instead. Around them, and without Killian’s direction, the crew jumped into the action of rotating the sails and hoisting the anchor. 

“I’ll have to collect it later.” He decided. “But you _do_ owe me.”

His hands steadied her back onto her feet once they separated, his hands snaking into his pockets to obscure how much they were twitching--nonetheless, she saw it. With a swift jerk of his head toward his cabin in a silent suggestion, she wrapped her arms around herself and wordlessly followed after. 

“No doubt you’re in need of rest or even a meal. One of the lads will bring it along shortly.” Killian had to yell in order to be heard, the rain threatening to take them all down, drag them under with it--the crew knowing what to do without being told the only reason that they hadn’t. While they walked along, brown locks plastered to his forehead, dripping against the shoulders of a well-tailored jacket that she’d only then just noticed. She could only imagine that she didn’t look much better, but somehow he made it look so much more charming.

She kicked herself for thinking such. 

The tension between them that had once a few moments ago been so sweet was lost with the brutal interruption. It’d irked her to some degree, but it was welcome lest either choose to play at their temptations. 

Once inside, Killian shed his drenched coat and draped it over the back of a chair. He stretched, snatching a towel from one of the tables to run it over his skin, sleek and glistening, and his hair. The motion left it disheveled, wet strands sticking up every which way. Even running his fingers through did little to smooth it down. 

She smiled. 

“I suppose that you can take my bed for the night.” He offered, extending the towel to her. “At least until I can set you up with your own private quarters. I’ll take the sofa--I find it more comfortable most nights anyway.” Once she retrieved the cloth to dry herself off, he laid their swords down. Then, he threw himself onto the bright red sofa that sat directly adjacent to the piano.

He was tall enough to not fit on it completely--his legs elevated on its arm. His forearms tucked against his thinner frame, crossed over and his shoulders finished the motion of wiggling into a more comfortable position as if he’d practiced it hundreds of times. She wondered how many other people he’d had in his cabin that taking the couch was no difficult feat. 

Pushing the thought away, she began running the towel through her drenched curls. “Thank you.” She managed through another little wan smile and she watched him, looking just as disorderly, but aside from being the more charming of the two, he was also definitely more endearing than she could hope to be in the moment. A sudden flurry in her chest betrayed her indifferent façade, but she allowed it to slip into a calm thoughtfulness instead. 

Outside, the rain tapped its intense rhythm against the oversized window to their right, It pulled her out of her momentary trance. The floorboards creaked, sails flapping and cracking, various rushed footsteps pounding across the deck on the other side of the door. A secretive dark swamped the room. 

“You might find something to wear in the chest, but until the storm passes and we can dock on the island, we’re left with the funnest bit.” He said with an arch in his brows and a sigh. “Waiting.”

Wendy didn’t bother with a change of clothes, warm to her very core despite the damp that clung to her new wardrobe. Instead, she walked to where the piano sat beside the couch, settling down onto the bench and moving the blank parchment aside to lift up the cover. Long, elegant fingers moved over the keys, a gentle tune resonating in her ears that drowned out the harsh sounds of the storm. 

A bright flash reflected in her eyes. 

Out of the corner, she saw him looking. What little sunlight remained slowly faded, filtering for only a moment through the window to give his hair a slightly golden hue before they were drowned into the darkness of the cabin once again. Her first initial thought was to remark about his _looks_. A crazy thought, alarmingly hysterical and hitting her with the same show of force that urged her to not run when first given the chance. Regardless, she felt an undeniable sense of calm, the gentle pushing of piano keys and drifting notes lulling her into a relaxed state. 

Killian melted into the couch cushions.

Her brow furrowed as she slid her fingers over in concentration. She felt like a being out of time. Whenever she smiled, whenever her eyes flicked over him and held steady, she forgot to think about life and instead learned to _live_ it. Even Smee knew when not to interrupt, sliding a stray on the table by the door before he was gone again. Now, what remained was only the two of them, unspoken feelings, and a possibility. Even sitting in the dark without candlelight, the warmth and the light that he radiated touched her. 

Wendy basked in it, let it reach her just enough. 

A calm tune resonated in her ears, lulling and harmonious alongside her own rampantly running thoughts. It drowned out along with her other senses, one carefully placed note after the other that turned into a song that she scarcely recognized.

Then it was gone and her eyes were turning to where the cushion next to her shifted. Wendy didn’t look at him right away, rather let the silence in the dark linger. His head had turned to the ceiling, tired, a soft exhale making his chest heave. The storm may have interrupted the moment, but it did not disturb the quiet solidarity that presided on the inside of their shared cabin. Her worried melted away in that instant, any notion to find Peter Pan lost if not to relish in the present, to absorb the moment just a little longer--as long as she could.

The remnants of a song played in the back of her head, a gentle series of notes in tune with the rumbling thunder in the distance, growing closer with each passing second. She stole one more glance sideways, cleared her throat with the silent assumption that she _would_ be taking his bed for the night, and lifted herself up. 

His presence left a burning sensation in her stomach, a painful fluttering that traveled the length of her chest and split across her heart even with the growing distance. She placed it behind their sudden proximity after so long, one that she wasn’t used to. Not just with her, but an intimate closeness with anyone in general. 

Killian was probably a different story entirely. 

Words hadn’t needed to be said. No conversation had to be made or any unspoken truths that would betray the moment. She didn’t ask him any particular reasoning behind his actions, and he never outright stated why he had let her stay in such the confines of his quarters in the first place despite being so adamant about the rest of his crew obeying his personal boundaries.

But the ship had cast itself out, the island a blurry shape in the distance obscured by dark clouds and torrential rain. A heavy feeling settled over the island, almost angered and spiteful in its assault, and yet not a single creature stirred. Nothing ran for cover or made for high ground. The island remained silent and still, the trees blowing hard with the wind but otherwise not making a sound. It was quiet, eerily so, but held some unspoken mystery behind it begging to be solved.

At some point after settling underneath satin sheets, she had finally allowed the rocking ship and the ghosts of piano notes to lull her to sleep. Only after looking at Killian again. 

His eyes fluttered, and she saw him slowly sink into the realm of dreams.

Its lurching had stirred him only occasionally, a slight stretch tugging at his limbs every so often as he squeezed into the small space of the couch. A sort of content presided upon his sleeping face, his hands tucked into his lap until the rest of his body had followed suit. Not a single complaint had been voiced, nor any remark about discomfort. The captain of the Jolly Roger had been content, laying on the couch in a mutual silence and occupying the same space of Wendy across the room. 

* * *

When she awoke--the lurching of the ship stirring her from sleep, Killian still slept. Her hair was splayed across her face, her lips drawn in a pout and her cheeks red, thin veins beneath her eyelids giving her pale skin a bluish tint. Her eyelashes fluttered as she awoke, her mind and body no doubt grateful for the much needed break.

It was the best sleep that she’d had in years. 

She’d barely had a moment to grasp her bearings before a rumble of thunder tore her attention to the window, a blinding flash casting long shadows across the wall. It was still dark despite the early hours of the morning, and yet the sun still shied away, refused to reveal itself and ward the storm away, bringing nothing other than a chilling darkness to Neverland.

Gripping the edge of the bed for stability, the ship maneuvering unsteadily across the rocky waves, it yanked away any drowsiness that she’d had, attention turned toward the rapidly passing scenery. A shudder had her standing--stumbling--throwing her legs sideways until her feet touched ground. 

She made her way toward the main deck. 

It wasn’t long since sunrise, but the air still chilled from the night. The rest of the crew still had yet to stir, sleeping soundly in their bunks after having spent the majority of their night keeping the ship afloat. The storm had eased somewhat--enough that it did not need micro-managed, but also enough that it left the deck disorderly.

Wendy stumbled with another harsh jerk, hand bracing against the ledge. A harsh creaking sound emanated from the floorboards below, a quiet splitting that threatened to tear the ship apart. They would need to dock soon, seek out repairs, get more supplies. Unfortunately, the island seemed difficult to get to unless someone wanted to brave the ocean on a small dinghy or swim.

The universe granted her the possibility, the secret wish, that she could finally get to the island and figure out what had taken all of the life with it. One insistent, harsh tug left her stumbling out onto the edge of the deck, gripping the railing. Ever insistent, it beckoned to her, the churning, swirling water below holding her hostage in a vice grip that she couldn’t shake from. 

A gasp drowned under the rumbling of thunder--the center of her chest colliding harshly with the siding, reaching a hand out and nearly sacrificing herself to it. 

She barely had any time to draw in a shocked breath when a large wave knocked against the ship and sent her tumbling over the railing. Her body cut through the ocean with a splash, being pushed further and further away from the Jolly Roger with every foot gained and every stroke she tried to take against the current. Her head went under, and her vision was lost to darkness.


	6. The Lost Prince (Peter)

The welt stitched from his elbow, snaked along the length of his forearm and vanished between his middle and index finger. It promised a scar would take its place, a stark reminder of how  _ he  _ was the one that had suffered a misstep. At his side, Archer gouged the tolerance of his pain, wincing at every single prod as if he was the one feeling it. 

Peter remained silent, his eyes cast out beyond the main clearing of their encampment to some distant point in the forest. A quick jab at his wrist proved to be more of a minor annoyance than anything, his brows creasing at the same jab in his concentration--it proving just enough to waver his focus.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost think you wanted this to happen.”

While it had been meant as a joke, Peter couldn’t find the humor in it, his gaze turning just to linger on the boy, a troubled pinch clinging to his eyebrows. 

Archer dabbed at the wound with a drenched cloth, completely oblivious to his begrudging expression. He was smiling—the barest trace lifting his dimpled cheeks and stretching his freckled face—but one look up to Peter was cause enough for him to yield. Smile faltering, he cleared his throat and wrung out the scarlet soaked cloth, staining the bucket water a murky red. “I’m just saying, if you ignored Runner when he’s acting like an  _ idiot—“ _

“He believes that he can lead better than I can.” Peter mused aloud with firm disdain, an edge to his tone that betrayed any calm demeanor entirely. “If I  _ ignore  _ him, all that will prove is that I’m weak to the rest of the boys.” He turned his forearm over, his expression remaining placid despite the gruesomeness of it; what would likely leave behind more permanent damage in the process. 

A bright red welt clumsily stitched together, but the sharp pain slowly subsided into a dull throb and that was enough for him to ignore it. 

“Nobody on the island would doubt your leadership.” He sounded so  _ sure _ , as if he could seriously discern what went on in those rabid boy’s minds. Rising from his crouched position, he took a seat on one of the stumps sitting directly adjacent to where Peter had settled. 

“Even you?”

“You know Runner as well as I do.” Then that innocent smile was back with another gentle prod of a joke, ducking his head and fidgeting with the towel in his hands. “He’s the last person that I would trust to not lead us off the edge of a cliff for the hell of it.” 

“You sound confident that I won’t.” Peter remarked, managing a smile of his own albeit dry and more than a little wan. 

The softest exhalation of a laugh breathed out through his nose. “Maybe. That was the case before, but you’ve changed.” Following his confession, Archer’s eyes faltered, instead turning vibrant green eyes skyward. Dark clouds loomed overhead and showered them in the beginnings of rainfall. Save for a few lit torches in the ground, the bare light of morning was their only source, but even  _ that  _ began to diminish with the coming storm. Their torches snuffed out, one after the other. 

“Changed?” Peter echoed. “Changed  _ how _ ?”

“ _ Changed  _ as in you’re no longer fun.” A hard punch was delivered to the boy’s shoulder with Peter’s good arm. Archer winced despite being hit at such an awkward angle, and it failed to sway his good spirits. Nonetheless, he rubbed at the abused area. 

“You know what’s not funny?” Peter quipped. “You. Ever. I should throw you to the pirates for even trying.”

“I wouldn’t mind that, I think. It could end up being quite the adventure.” He shrugged, moving to stand, tucking the bucket underneath his arm. “Beats sitting in the camp all the time waiting for something to happen.”

No, their days of foolishness and scouting the harsh terrain of the island were over. In his time, he’d watched it change, observed a land of childish dreams and wonder turn to something much more malevolent, its creatures exhibiting a new aggression, the fairies having all but disappeared into their holes and refusing to come out should someone snatch them and clip their wings. Groups much worse than the pirates had formed, waiting for the day that Neverland would finally be brought to its knees, and some demanding Peter’s head on a stick as though it were something he could  _ actually  _ control. 

Maybe he could. He didn’t know. 

Nevertheless, Peter nodded, ducking his head between his shoulders, fingers fumbling with a stray twig in between his hands he’d picked from the stump. “I’ll wager there are things better than that.” He mused, raising his head skyward to scenery that he had seen  _ thousands  _ of times before. 

Somehow he never tired of it. 

“Like being fed to the crocodiles.” Peter snickered low. 

“Cutting off Hook’s other hand.” Archer added. “Being trampled by herds of wild animals.”

“Being assaulted by mermaids.”

Archer hissed between his teeth, bobbing his head. “You’ve got me beat.” 

A long paused filtered between them, stretching out into a thin silence where neither prodded the other for anything more. Their gazes lingered on cloudy skies and the rainfall that came with it, but neither moved just yet. 

Peter felt it, him  _ looking _ as he hunched over in the stump, elbows perched on his knees before his attention found the stick again. He cleared his throat.

“You look tired.” Archer observed more tentatively, a curious inviting inquiry that only begged for the honest truth.

“I’ll be so bold as to say that I am.

“I mean, more tired.” He corrected with a gentle smirk. “You’ve been a little distant since you got back. Everyone’s noticed, but I know that you might not want to talk about it considering--”

Peter sniffed and straightened, tossing the stick to the ground in much smaller, split pieces. “Such is the price of wanting something you can’t have ‘innit?” 

The boy nodded, humming thoughtfully. The rainfall pressed harder. What began as a drizzle had morphed into a downpour, threatening a flood if they weren’t too careful. It went on ignored. 

“Do you remember what it was?”

The smile that Peter offered didn’t quite reach his eyes, bleeding disbelief and flitting along the spectrum of condescending without him necessarily trying. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, his eyebrows flicking up to meet it. “Believe me, Laddie, if I did I wouldn’t be here.” He scowled. “Why?” 

“Nothing.” With a sheepish smile, he cradled the bucket in his arms, steps retreating back toward their encampment located on the other side of the brush. Even when Peter stood, he didn’t stop. “Come find me in a few hours. That’ll need to be cleaned and redressed.” 

Where Archer had even  _ learned  _ such skills, he didn’t ask, not that he was necessarily complaining if one of his lost boys had picked up a new hobby. One that was more beneficial than gator wrestling or playing chicken with the mermaids--sirens more like. “Archer--”

Before he could say more, Archer was gone and Peter was left alone, standing in the middle of their camp with the sounds of the other lost boys resonating profoundly on the other side. He breathed in, running his fingers against the nape of his neck and through the hair that curled there. 

And once more, turning toward the sky again, pieces clouded his memory much like the scene above him that promised a worse storm would be rolling through. No reprieve, no  _ mercy _ and only the barest  _ sliver  _ of a chance for a brighter tomorrow. Before, when the voices had asked him to do things when he first gave his life to the island, he would have never dreamt of actually doing them. 

Now he did so without hesitation. 

Being  _ alone _ \--in a sense--being a part of Neverland as long as he had left him vulnerable--left him a target for the shadows that lurked in the dark ready to reach out and take him. Once a bright-eyed and innocent young lad, that part of him was gone, a mere shell that he could no longer recall. Left in its place was whoever he was now, varying depending on the moment. 

Neverland had crushed him.

Neverland had crushed him. It beat him down, made demands only because it had needed a ruler. Not a boy, but a  _ man.  _ It changed him to fit its own selfish desire and mischief had turned to cruelty, his shadow enshrouded him in its spectral light--dark and prodding. The urge for violence had grown stronger, the urge for  _ chaos _ , to let go of childish solutions and urged him to look to a more permanent fix as to what ailed him, or rather  _ who _ .

War. Bloodshed. Letting go of the reigns of the more primal part of himself.

_ It  _ did this. Ensured that it would survive through belief and magic if just to change the belief in him, turning him into more of a nightmare than a dream. The Lost Boys’ loyalty grew, but only out of fear, only with the knowledge that he was all they had. 

The island grew darker, the sunlight bled away and pixie dust became useless.

It was Peter’s reality now and it didn’t take long to revel in that change. Strangely, he had learned to enjoy this newfound ferocity. And it had left him with a tendency to forget. While he did remember the in-betweens, there were blotches here and there empty with a reminder that there was  _ something  _ missing, but what that was remained a mystery.

He didn’t give into it, that temptation or  _ want  _ to know.

For Peter was in the darkness and so the darkness he became. 

There was no quiet jingling to bring his attention back, no fairy to land on his shoulder and steer him in the right direction. There hadn’t been for a long time now. 

Rubbing his index finger against his eyelids, he began his journey back toward the others, only for Archer to burst through the bushes again, eyes wide and pointing urgently toward the area of the forest that had captured his attention earlier. His lips were pressed together, brow creased in worry. 

Breathless and gasping, he heaved: “ _ Peter _ ! One of the traps sprung on the South side!”

* * *

“Well, look at it then. It seems we’ve caught a bird.” Peter’s voice mocked upon arriving to the source. He could hear it, the muffled creak in the trees above him that suggested their branches would crack. They reacted to his presence, swaying with a heightened ferocity while he looked on with only vague curiosity. His hands shoved into his pockets; there was no hint of childish banter in his tone, just a stark and almost threatening formality. “A bit foreign for Neverland, unless of course I must have missed something while I was away.” 

Archer followed in tow, his own quizzical expression looking up and fixing his eyes on the girl through the holes in the net that had trapped her. “It’s… It’s a girl.” He began tentatively, noticeably careful with his next choice of words--something that suddenly put Peter on the defensive. There was an air of recognition, as if there was something he knew that his partner did not. “She’s freezing. We should bring her back with us.”

Best to play it by ear then. 

“Cut her down.” He ordered, taking a knife from a sheath in the strap across his chest, flipping it around and extending the hilt out to him. “I say we play a new game.”

Archer seemed hesitant, catching Peter in a wide eyed stare. One look was all it took to urge the boy to obey, traversing over to where the rope wrapped around the tree and began sawing at the knot. “I think that we should maybe talk to the others about this. She could have come from Captain Jones’ ship--”

“Yes, because I’d most certainly hate to get in the way of a budding romance.” Peter said a bit sarcastically--perhaps more than a bit. “Do as I _ tell  _ you.” He silenced any future protest with a dismissive hand gesture before he knelt down next to where the girl remained trapped. One sweeping stare over her form and he cocked a smile.

Suddenly his brow creased, a poking prodding sensation much worse than a needle being insistent, being  _ annoying,  _ something about this lost  _ girl  _ he couldn’t quite define, not at a mere first glance.

And that bothered him. 

“Are you lost? You look lost to me.” His head cocked to the side, obscuring his budding frustration quite easily. 

“Peter…” It was a whisper, a breath, barely loud enough for them to hear. She sat rigid and still, the space between them closed but holding some form of distance. His face bordered indifference, his eyes flickering over her, her mouth slightly agape and gawking.

“Peter.” She repeated, a bit louder this time, a strange mixture of relief and something akin to concern tinting her voice. Without averting her gaze, she wiped a hand across her forehead, streaking it with dirt. 

His shadow extended farther than it ever had before, much farther than Archer’s who was barely noticeable with the lack of light to reflect it. Peter was quiet for a moment, however brief, his brows suddenly furrowed as they locked gazes. Although it could not physically be seen, a sort of thoughtfulness flickered behind his eyes; contemplating.  _ Thinking.  _

From her wet brown hair down to her clothes soaked and caked with mud, despite the state of her, despite having no form of recognition despite her uttering his name, whatever spark would ignite and seemingly grant him the opportunity to  _ think  _ of who this girl might be, to welcome her to the hell that Neverland had become with open arms and allow her to slip seamlessly into their lives with only her word as a well enough explanation. He remained quizzical,  _ agonizingly  _ so. 

“I  _ am  _ Peter Pan.” He confirmed, turning his eyes up to where Archer crouched next to the girl, making use of the knife and cutting relentlessly at the trap that bound her. “She looks as if she can hardly stand the sight of me.”

“I bet with a bath and a meal, she’ll feel well enough to talk about what happened.” Archer suggested, extending the knife out again, tentative fingers wrapping around the girl’s wrist and helped her to sit upright. His touch was gentle, as it always was, not trying to push her until she was ready but urging her head out of the mud. He shrugged off his jacket, draping it around her shoulders. 

Peter took the knife, still crouched down in front of the girl with the barest look of bewilderment. Unlike the familiar childish energy that he had so seamlessly carried around before, he was more measured and accurate now; stable in a way that promised every single move would have some sort of devastating outcome with no regret of what that might be. 

Electricity crackled in the air. 

“I can take her back to the camp--” Archer offered. 

“I’m the one who makes the games here, and she can be sure that I will not play hers.” Peter interrupted, steadying that level gaze on her, Archer’s incredulous expression dismissed for the moment, just long enough for Peter to size her up. “Do you enjoy a game of questions? I ask you a question, and you answer. The real winner is decided if I happen to like the answer you give me.”

In his crouched position, he moved a little closer leaving only a couple feet of space in between them, with Archer grasping her shoulders to hold her upright, but he didn’t argue as if he somehow knew  _ better  _ than that. “So what say you, Lass? Did you jump ship from the pirates? Did they  _ tell  _ you to find me?”

“No,” she  _ lied _ \--smooth, she was. “They kidnapped me. I fell over the railing of the ship this morning.” She wrapped Archer’s jacket tighter around her freezing form. “Nevertheless, I’ve been looking for  _ you _ .” Her gaze softened a tiny fraction, making his own only harden more. “You--” She trailed off, sucking in a breath and almost imperceptibly shook her head. “You used to know me once.”

Her assumption ushered a scoff from him, low and baffled, even more so by her petulant attempt at insisting that she was harmless. It pushed him on the defensive, proving to still be semi-cautious of her even if she was the one that was sitting below him and in a worse state than even he.

“I’ll bet you have.” He shoved off from his knees to stand, maintaining that intimidating demeanor quite easily. It wasn’t a part of his game, or his façade. 

It was real. 

It had been for a long time now.

“But I can’t quite see myself forgetting a personality as baffling as yours, but there are some faces that are easy to forget.” The words unfolded much more harshly than he likely meant--a mere blunt observation--but still irked by her explanation, by her familiar and unfamiliarity. 

No, he didn’t believe her. He  _ couldn’t _ . Peter’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at her with painful indifference, cocking a smile, cold and calculated as if his very soul had hardened. 

“Do you know the best thing about a bird, Love? When they get wet it’s much more difficult for them to fly away.”


End file.
